‘Are you his wife?’ asks the doctor.
‘Yes...’ I start to say.
Amanda comes rushing into the scene.
‘Alan, oh my word, what’s happened? Darling, can you hear me?’
‘I mean no,’ I sigh, ‘this lady is.’
I watch as they wheel him out on the stretcher with Amanda clutching his hand.
Patty puts her arm around me.
‘I told him to drop dead,’ I despair recalling my last words.
‘Well he hasn’t and he won’t. He’ll be fine now thanks to you,’ she says. ‘And well done with Amanda, I know that was hard.’
He’s still one of my guests and I have to be sure he’s looked after, so go to find out the options from the doctor and captain. Being so close to the mainland, the best option for him is to be flown to Southampton General. I explain this to Amanda and she agrees to it; I wonder whether I’d have insisted if she hadn’t agreed.
I would have no right to. I sit with them both while we wait for the helicopter to arrive and I witness the tenderness and affection between them. It’s taken a near-death experience for me to accept that they’re the couple now.
The coastguard crew are masterful; the backdrop of the night sky, the flashing lights of the helicopter and everyone knowing exactly what to do. I have permission to stay with the couple until they’re safely on their way and Patty stands with me.
The ship’s doctor supervises the move and then comes back to stand with us as the rescue team take flight.
‘You got to him in time,’ he reassures us, ‘he’ll be fine now.’
I turn to thank him for his help and am struck by what I see. Patty and the doctor standing side by side, not noticing each other as they both watch the helicopter.
As a couple, they’re bathed in the flashing lights of the landing area, the flashing red and orange lights which seem to focus their beam only on these two.
I discreetly take a picture of them.
‘Oh Patty,’ I think, ‘Cleo Castanello was right after all. And to think, you’re about to be stuck on a ship with this man for a few more weeks.’
‘Shall we go inside,’ says the doctor, guiding Patty.
If only she could see it too.
Land Ahoy
I opt to take a morning boat to Southampton rather than wait for the cruise ship to get there later and as soon as I land, I’m relieved to be back on terra firma.
I go straight to the hospital and sit in the waiting room alongside weary-looking relatives bearing carrier bags of food. It seems the sick these days would rather have chocolate and Coke rather than grapes and flowers. I wonder whether I should have brought anything. I can’t think what would be appropriate for your ex – especially one who’s had a heart scare.
Visiting starts in twenty minutes and I’ve had a call from Zoe to say her flight from Manchester has landed and she’ll be with us soon. Amanda has been out a couple of times to tell me that he’s stable; it feels extremely odd hearing news from someone else but I need to be civil for Zoe’s sake.
At that moment, my daughter bursts through the door as if she’s appearing in ER and gives me a big hug. The clock hits the appointed hour and the whole waiting room disperses down the various corridors. We find Alan in a private room hooked up to monitors and machines. Zoe rushes to him in tears.
‘Oh Dad, what were you doing?’ she asks.
Amanda stands aside; it’s as if there’s a new hierarchy being established. I might be behind Amanda but Zoe is definitely in front of her when it comes to Alan’s affections.
‘Reliving my youth,’ answers Alan, his pale face showing genuine joy at the sight of his daughter. ‘You’d have been ashamed of me.’
Zoe takes both of us by the hand.
‘You two need to stop doing this,’ she smiles. ‘I can’t cope with my unruly parents.’
She looks to Amanda. ‘If you keep him under control, I’ll sort her out – deal?’
‘Deal,’ we all say.
At that point a nurse walks in and hands Alan the Southampton Gazette.
‘Look at that, I’m more famous than you now,’ he says.
Alan spreads the paper out to show a front-page headline of a dramatic rescue at sea. It’s a fantastic photograph of his stretcher being hoisted into the helicopter against the landing lights and the shadowy silhouettes of the crew.
‘I don’t want either of you famous, I want you alive and well,’ scolds Zoe, still more grown up than either of us.
Visiting time is nearly over, so I ask Amanda if I can have a word with Alan. She leads Zoe out of the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, ‘I didn’t want my last words to you to be “drop dead”.’
He takes hold of my hand. ‘Thanks to you, they weren’t your last words and my last words won’t be abusive either. I think you’ve been brilliant this year.’
‘Do you think we could be friends?’ he adds taking me by surprise.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say honestly, ‘but we can always try.’
We peck on the cheek and I say my goodbyes.
I need to get back to Mercury Travel as Charlie will shortly be off on the wine tour. With assurances that they’ll keep me updated, I head for the train station. I must sleep for most of the journey as I remember none of it; my rolling head jerks me awake when we reach Piccadilly and then I get a taxi home. Despite all of this sleep, the god Morpheus blesses me for another nine hours when I finally put head to pillow in my own bed.
Heaven is indeed a place on earth.
Flat dry land feels strange after the trip and the office even stranger, familiar yet new. We’re busy from the moment we open the doors thanks to a local follow-up article about Alan’s rescue.
In this interview he tells them about the cruise and how he was having the time of his life. There he is in his hospital bed holding up a T-shirt which says, ‘Old Guys Still Rock’, loving the attention. He’s mentions Mercury Travel and praises our handling of things; he couldn’t have given us a better advertisement. Our website traffic is through the roof and with the flux of customers it’s created, I have to reacquaint myself with the job quicker than I’d anticipated on my first day back. I have to do without my usual hour of coffee and gossip.
‘Are you sure you can cope?’ asks Charlie.
‘Josie is going to come in full-time and I’ll just work longer hours, answer the online queries at night. You never know it may die down in a couple of days.’
‘I hope not,’ he says reading my mind too.
This level of busy is exactly what I need for the next few weeks while both Charlie and Patty are away. The contrast of the busy cruise liner I’ve just left and the quiet starter home I go back to will be even starker without them.
Yes, busy is good.
We make hay while we’re all here to man the pumps and convert huge numbers of enquiries to sales; many people are asking about next year and we haven’t got that calendar planned yet. As well as customer enquiries, we have emails from venues and tours that would like to be part of the Mercury Travel Club. That’s another task for the next few weeks, to take all of these ideas and have a draft calendar ready for Charlie and me to review together.
Busy is very good.
Later, a local journalist comes in following up on the story; he’s heard about the magician too and wants to make this a wider piece about high jinks on the high seas. I have Zoe’s voice ringing in my head, ‘I don’t want either of you to be famous’, and quite frankly, I don’t want to be either. Instead, I suggest the names of some customers that he can talk to. As anticipated, the customers embellish the details, provide personal photographs and enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame. They call to reassure me that they’ve said nice things and to make sure they’re on our mailing list. It seems everyone wants a little piece of Mercury chaos in their lives.
Busy is exhausting.
Mum calls while my dinner is rotating in the microwave. I dread it pinging duri
ng our conversation, confirming all of her comments about my cooking, but sod’s law, it does.
‘I was just telling Moira that businesswomen like you just don’t have time to cook,’ she says. ‘I bet that Mary Portas doesn’t cook when she’s finished sorting out people’s shops.’
‘Moira?’ I interrupt ignoring the flattering Portas comparison.
‘She hands out the samples in the supermarket. They had their new fancy range out yesterday and I was telling her that it would be perfect for a businesswoman like you but I would have to try them out first. I showed her your picture in the paper.’
Mum is even dining out on Alan’s heart attack.
‘We both agreed that you’re a real hero. Moira said she wouldn’t rescue her ex if he were choking on one of her ready meals.’
‘She sounds lovely. Anyway, how’s Dad?’ I ask.
‘She wants to know how you are,’ she yells at him and there follows a mini row with him telling her not to shout and her saying she’s not. The usual exchange; I wait until they remember I’m still here.
‘He says he’s very proud of you,’ Mum says, ‘we both are.’
The power of the media and as Mum calls them ‘proper newspapers not internet things’. They can be folded up, stuffed into handbags and then handed out to shop assistants, hairdressers and a host of people who didn’t want them in the first instance. And in the hands of my mother they can be used for bartering and scrounging.
‘The man in the pub gave Dad a free pint when I showed him your article.’
‘That’s very generous,’ I say.
‘Well, I said I might be able to get him a discount off one of your holidays,’ she confesses.
By the time I’ve finished paying for all of Mum’s freebies I’ll be bankrupt.
No Such Thing as Bad Publicity
The article in the local paper takes the wind out of my sails; instead of the heroic rescue angle, it suggests the travel club might be a danger to people’s health.
‘The owners refused to comment,’ I read out to Josie, ‘but the questions remain, did they put their customers within arm’s reach of known international criminals? Did they persuade customers to party like youngsters with no thought of the consequences? The answer to both these questions seems to be a resounding “guilty as charged”.’
‘That’s garbage, no one will believe that,’ says Josie.
The article then goes on to ridicule the photographs that the customers have given to the journalist and promises more online.
I can’t stop myself and we head to the website where the main picture is a clip from the only Granny-Oke gig I did.
We’re doing ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ and the subline is, ‘we recommend they go – now’. We get off the website.
It gets worse, I start to feel as if I’m on Ice Road Truckers with a forty-tonne articulated lorry skidding towards a crevasse – the local radio station announces that it has an interview with the journalist and a phone-in about ‘growing old disgracefully’.
I don’t know whether I should warn people that their trust has been abused. I feel as if I’ve let Charlie down and am just glad he’s mid-air by now. I hold my head in my hands and cannot bear to answer the phone when it rings. Josie picks it up, nods a few times, and then with the receiver held in the crook of her neck, she taps out a website address and turns her screen to me.
I go over and look at what she’s showing me. The response is unbelievable.
‘Condescending prick,’ sums up the outpouring from people furious about the article.
‘So Jagger has to stop touring? Attenborough stop travelling the world?’ asks one contributor.
‘What have you ever done with your life?’ asks another.
‘This man is a complete liar. We had a brilliant time on that cruise and told him so. How do we report him?’ says one Mercurian.
The site is on fire, so by the time the radio interview starts, there are people outside the station protesting over the reporting, the ageism and the closure of the local swimming pool, although I’m not sure how they managed to justify riding this wave.
I’m already finding the coverage completely unbelievable when we get a call from Ladies At Lunch, a national TV programme. They want me to talk about reliving my youth and making a business helping others to do the same.
I have difficulty saying no to anyone, many women do and we end up promising away every ounce of our spare time and energy, but I really don’t want to do this. Would Charlie give away this much free publicity? What if I’m rubbish on TV and it ends up being a disaster? How could it when we’re not doing anything wrong? Why on earth did I think I could run a business in the first place?
ARGH – WHY DON’T THEY ALL JUST GO AWAY?
I’m beating myself up when Alan calls me to reassure me that he didn’t badmouth the travel club in any of his interviews, he’d never do that.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now do you fancy saying that on national TV?’
And that’s how my ex-husband became a national advocate of the Mercury Travel Club. He was fabulous.
‘So give me a list of the things you’d like me to give up,’ he says to one interviewer and then, ‘What date exactly do you plan to stop enjoying yourself?’ to another.
He tells everyone how the team from Mercury saved his life, getting to him before anyone else noticed that he’d fallen in the crowd. It was a good move: having the guy who went on holiday and had a heart attack while enjoying himself was a far more powerful advertisement than I could ever have been. The show was overwhelmed with tweets supporting him as well as a few saucy ones asking for his number. He loved every minute.
Later we even get an apology from the journalist bowing to ‘people power’ and some free Christmas advertising as recompense. There’s a surge of protest bookings; customers telling everyone that they’re not too old to live life to the full and wanting us to help them.
Mercury Travel Club has a lot to live up to.
‘Don’t get trampled by a stampede of wildebeest,’ I tell Charlie when he calls to say they all arrived safely.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ he replies, ‘at this rate we’d just be keeping up the reputation we’re building. Come to Mercury and live life on the edge. You know what we say, the chaos comes free.’
‘I think a reputation for injuring our customers might work against us,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry I’ll bring everyone back, in one piece, with no scandal, no airlifts and no diamond smugglers. Just good wine, majestic wildlife and African skies as you promised.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I reply. I wish I’d gone on that trip.
I settle into a few days of quiet but solid work, making the most of the past few days but trying not to stoke it any further. I leave the phone on answer-machine mode, calling customers back immediately but ignoring any journalist requests. After a fortnight the news is old and I stop getting calls. I let my guard down and as sure as a dog will always find a bone, one of them gets through to me.
‘Ms Shepherd? I’m Sarah from Business Today.’
‘Sorry, wrong person,’ I panic, ‘we’re not doing any more interviews.’
‘Oh, I didn’t want an interview,’ she says, ‘it’s about the Entrepreneur of the Year awards, could I speak to Ms Shepherd?’
I ascertain that she’s not giving me an award; she just wants me to sponsor them.
‘Sponsor them? What do you mean? I want to win one, when are they?’ I ask.
‘The closing date is tomorrow and we already have so many entries, I doubt you’ll have time to do yourselves justice whereas sponsoring the evening...’ she continues.
I’m not listening any more. Whatever can be said about me – and there are many things, I know – no one can say that I shirk from a challenge. Deadline, schmeadline.
I get her to send me the details and keep hitting refresh until they come through. This is how I’ll make it up to Charlie. I’ll work all night to put in an ou
tstanding entry for the Mercury Travel Club and ensure our spot on the stage next month. I flick to the bottom of the email to find out who’s hosting, hoping to discover that we’ll be photographed with Mr Necker Island himself. I feel slight disappointment when I spot that it’s the business editor and not my hero handing out the gongs on the night. Oh well, I’ll get to him one day.
That evening I puzzle over the application. Having never done one before, I have no idea what to write. If only Peter were here, he’d know. I think about calling him but I want to do this on my own. The questions are very open:
Q. ‘Tell us why you should win this award’
A. Because I have very low self-worth and need to prove that I have a talent for something.
Q. ‘How have you contributed to the local economy?’
A. Bought lots of new clothes and given many of the local community a bloody good laugh – usually at my expense.
Q. ‘How will you promote this award if you win it?’
A. I’ll give the trophy to my mum, who’ll keep it in her handbag and show it to everyone at the hairdressers.
Q. ‘Give examples of when you have provided excellent service’
A. I once left a customer with a lothario conman because she was flattered by the attention.
Despite these answers being the truth, I don’t think they’re quite what they’re looking for. I remember Peter saying that our business plan was pretty good so I dig that out and start drafting some sensible answers. It takes all evening but before the midnight hour, I have something I think Charlie would happy with too. I press the send button with scornful satisfaction: ‘Who won’t make the deadline – eh?’
These awards are what I’ve been waiting for all year and I’d forgotten all about them. If we hadn’t achieved such notoriety, the paper wouldn’t have thought to contact us, so I guess old Oscar Wilde was right – there are worse things than being talked about.
Busy, Busy, Busy
You don’t realise how much you miss your annoying best friends until they’re not there, well, annoying you.
The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny! Page 21
